Page 26

Sapphire

Circe leads us through the dense forest, each step taking us deeper into the heart of the island.

The path is narrow, trees pressing in from both sides, their twisted limbs blackened and brittle as if scorched by fire long ago. The air here is different, too. Heavier, with an electric hum.

“The ritual site is sacred,” Circe explains as we walk, flames dancing above her palm to illuminate our way. “It’s one of the few places where the veil between the mortal realm and the Underworld thins enough to allow communication with the dead.”

I follow her closely, keeping my distance from Riven, who trails behind.

“The ritual will summon those who hold the knowledge you seek,” Circe continues as we walk. “You’ll each be granted one question. Choose wisely—the dead do not suffer fools, and they have little patience for those who waste their time.”

“One question each?” Riven asks, measured and thoughtful. “That seems limited.”

Circe laughs, the sound echoing through the trees. “The dead are not at your beck and call,” she says. “They sometimes stay for a full conversation, but they offer wisdom at their discretion—not yours.”

The path opens into a clearing, and I stop short at the sight before us. Unlike the lush forest surrounding it, this space is barren—the ground charred black, the trees at its edges bent, as if cowering away from the perfect circle of white stones in the center.

But it’s not the appearance of the clearing that makes my heart race. It’s the sounds. Whispers drifting through the air like smoke, speaking words just beyond comprehension.

“You hear them,” Circe observes, watching my reaction. “The echoes of those who have passed. They’re always strongest here, even without a formal summoning.”

“I do,” I reply, and when I glance at Riven, the single nod he gives me shows that he does, too.

“I’ll ask about the Star Disc,” he tells me, steady and determined. “You should use your question to ask about Zoey.”

I narrow my eyes, suspicion flaring.

“Why?” I ask, unable to keep the edge from my voice. “What’s your angle?”

“There is no angle,” he says calmly, although frost crackles at his fingertips. “It’s strategy.”

“How convenient that your strategy lets you look so selfless while still getting what you want,” I reply, wind stirring around me.

“You don’t have to take the offer if you don’t want to.” He shrugs, his expression carefully neutral. “I just thought you’d be able to focus better on our mission if you know Zoey is safe.”

The casual dismissal stings, even though I know he’s not wrong.

“Fine,” I say shortly, since I’m not going to throw away this opportunity, especially not out of spite for Riven. “I’ll ask about Zoey.”

“If you two are finished,” Circe interrupts, her tone amused, “we should begin preparations. The witching hour approaches, and the veil grows thinnest as midnight passes.”

She gestures for us to follow her to the edge of the circle, where she kneels beside a flat stone that serves as a makeshift altar.

“Place your offerings here,” she instructs. “The barley mixed with honey, the cup, the wine—all of it. I’ll fetch a pig.”

Riven retrieves the items from our pack, laying them out on the stone, both of us intensely aware of the squeal that echoes through the forest as Circe selects a pig.

The undergrowth rustles as she returns, carrying a black-spotted one.

“He will serve our purpose,” she says as she kneels, tenderly stroking his head as she sets him in the center of the circle. “The blood of a sacrifice, to bridge the worlds of the living and the dead.”

I nod, steeling myself for what comes next. After all, since my potion-making abilities are stronger than Riven’s, it makes sense for me to complete this critical step. Just like how I was the one to do it with the dove.

I reach for the ceremonial dagger—one of the two daggers that the cloaked girl gave us—but before my fingers can close around the hilt, Riven swipes it out of my reach and completes the task with swift efficiency. So quickly and cleanly that the pig had no time to feel fear or pain.

Circe smirks slightly. “How merciful of you,” she muses, tilting her head at Riven. “You took his life quickly. No hesitation, no suffering. Not many show such respect for a life taken.”

Riven wipes the blade clean and steps back, refusing to look at me.

I should be grateful. The spell was completed efficiently, as it needed to be. But my skin prickles, my magic rising as I stare at the pool of blood darkening the ritual circle.

“I could have done it.” I take measured breaths, calling on every ounce of control to not snap at him.

“You’ve only killed for a sacrifice when the animal would come back to life, or for sustenance,” he says simply. “This needed to be done without hesitation, by someone who’s completed true sacrifices before. By me.”

“You didn’t even give me the chance,” I say, wind gathering around my hands as I return my focus to the white stone, which is getting slowly soaked by the pig’s blood, the red stain crawling under the ingredients below it.

So much for control.

Suddenly, fire erupts from Circe’s palms, silencing us both.

“Stand back,” she warns, her golden eyes reflecting the moving light. “We don’t have time for your arguing. It’s my turn now.”

Hovering over the sacrificial stone, the sorceress begins to chant in Ancient Greek, or something even older. The words crackle like the fire in her hands, and with each phrase, the blood sizzles, releasing thin tendrils of silvery vapor that coil upward like seeking fingers.

The whispers grow louder and more distinct—dozens of voices speaking over one another at an increasingly frantic pace.

Then, Circe shoots a ball of fire at the pit, turning the objects in it to ash.

The whispers quiet. Everything quiets. It’s like we’ve stepped into another plane of existence—a dulled, eerie, nearly muted limbo that’s neither Earth nor the Underworld. I can barely feel the ground beneath my feet or see the stars in the sky.

Every bone in my body wants to get out —to get back onto solid ground. But I swallow the fear and focus.

“Go ahead,” Circe tells us. “Speak your questions. The spirits of the Underworld will hear, and the one most suited to answer will rise from the pit and share their knowledge.”

Before I can speak, Riven steps forward, his eyes gleaming in the silvery light.

“I am Prince Riven Draevor of the Winter Court and the Summer Court,” he states, his voice commanding even in this otherworldly place. “And I seek knowledge of the Star Disc, forged by the goddess Celeste. Where can it be found, and how do we get there?”

The mist churns, swirling faster, until it begins to part.

From its depths rises a silvery, softly glowing figure—an elderly man cloaked in flowing, tattered robes. When he lifts his head, there’s nothing where his eyes should be. Only empty sockets, hollow and knowing.

“Tiresias,” Circe says softly, her eyes widening with recognition. “The Blind Prophet of Thebes.”

The prophet tilts his head, as if listening to distant voices only he can hear.

Riven and I say nothing as we wait for him to speak.

“The Star Disc dwells where celestial forces meet mortal waters,” the prophet finally says, his words vibrating through the air around us. “The Cosmic Tides, where stars meet the sea and time forgets itself.”

Riven’s brow furrows slightly. “We need more specific directions,” he says, sounding urgent—like he’s afraid the prophet will disappear without giving us what we need.

“The Cosmic Tides,” Tiresias continues, his milky eyes finding Riven’s despite his blindness, “exist where the currents flow between worlds. It’s a sea that’s not a sea—a vortex where the past, present, and the future fold into one.”

A shudder rolls through me.

These Tides do not sound like an ideal vacation destination.

“Sail the path between the Lonely Star Fomalhaut and the Navigator’s Star Canopus,” he continues. “It will lead you to the Charydian Rift—the gateway to the Cosmic Tides. But be warned that the Tides do not obey the laws of mortals, supernaturals, or even the gods. They are older than the realms. Older than memory itself.”

“And once we’re there?” Riven asks, pushing further. “How do we retrieve the Star Disc?”

“Survive the Tides, and the Disc will burn through the sky,” the prophet replies. “But the Cosmic Tides test more than courage or strength. They test the essence of who you are. They strip away every illusion and lie you tell yourself, until only the unvarnished truth remains. Many have entered seeking power or knowledge, but few emerge as the same person who dared to step inside.”

He fades at the edges, becoming more transparent with each passing second.

“May the Fates guide your celestial journey,” he adds. “And remember—sometimes the greatest dangers come not from the outside, but from within.”

With that, he disappears into the mist, although the silvery vapor continues to swirl.

I stare at the space where he stood in shock.

Because that wasn’t ominous or anything.

Circe toys with more fire in her fingertips, looking to me, yanking me out of my thoughts. “Your turn, Princess,” she says, the word not sounding as mockingly taunting coming from her as it does from Riven.

“You’ve got this,” the offending prince himself assures me.

“I know.” I narrow my eyes at him for assuming I didn’t think I could do this—just like he didn’t think I could handle sacrificing the pig.

He simply holds my gaze in challenge, and I step forward, my heart pounding as I focus on the misty pit of death in front of me.

“I’m Princess Sapphire Hayes Fairmont Solandriel Draevor of the Summer Court, the Winter Court, the New York Vampire Clan, and the star touched warrior of Celeste,” I say into the abyss. And while the long-winded title is—and will always be—a mouthful, it doesn’t feel quite as horrible as it did the first time I heard it.

Probably because I’m the one speaking it—not Riven.

“I seek knowledge of my best friend, Zoey Madison, who was taken by the Night Court,” I continue. “I need to know how I can rescue her.”

The mist churns, shadows stretching and twisting within it as the whispers grow louder and more frantic.

Then, abruptly, they fall silent.

The vapor parts again. But this time, the figure that rises from the pit makes my blood run cold.

Because it’s not an ancient prophet.

It’s Matt Larkin.

My ex-boyfriend who was undeniably alive less than a month ago, on the night of his disastrous marriage proposal, when I fell into the fae realm.